Last updated on 21/10/2024
Chapter 5, Part Three. The Trevi Fountain.
Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.
Day seven. In the afternoon of the second day, Richard had fallen asleep on his bed, there being no organised trips and so Michael went for a walk. He explored the streets around the hotel. He found himself back at the Campidoglio steps and climbed them again to the piazza which was now less crowded with tourists and coach parties. Various Italian youths had congregated there, sitting on the low walls, watching the tourists milling around. They spied Michael and began to shout at him. ‘Hey English,’ they called and he wondered how they could possibly know his nationality. In fact, his ginger hair and pallid face made him stand out and it didn’t take a lot of intelligence to guess where he was from. Another lad called, ‘Hey English. You wanna a bit of jiggy jiggy?’ Michael failed to understand the meaning of this though he assumed it was some kind of salacious invitation. He decided he needed to get away from the delinquent Italians and made his way back down the steps. He could hear them jeering behind him. In the crowds of tourists on the street below he felt somewhat safer.
At length, Michael arrived at the Trevi fountains. Many sight-seers were sitting on the walls surrounding the semi-circular pool, looking at the carved figures and the rocks in the middle from which water was cascading. He dipped his fingers into the pool and found, to his surprise, that it felt ice cold. He later learned that the water had come thirteen kilometres via an aqueduct built by the Romans so it was still cold by the time it emerged into the Fontana di Trevi. Later in life, when he experienced very hot weather, he would think of the cold water of the Trevi fountains and how refreshing it had felt in the heat of the Roman summer. In this city, Michael felt that he had discovered an international culture; he saw around him people from all the nationalities of the world. He liked Rome more than London. It had so much history and culture that felt very different to him. The city had a romance and a sense of wonder, with its crumbling ancient edifices and imposing buildings. The Trevi fountains felt like the epicentre of this marvellous metropolis. He stayed there for some time, soaking up the sights and sounds of the attraction and studying the behaviour of the tourists who had gathered there.
Michael left the Trevi fountains and wandered around the roads looking into shops and exploring the lanes and alleys that led from the main roads. He stopped at a little café and sat outside enjoying some ice cream and a coffee. He made notes in his little book, penning thoughts about all that he had seen; he wrote
Rome never ceases to amaze me. I have fallen in love with the buildings, the ancient monuments, the lovely little cafés, and the milling crowds of tourists from everywhere in the world. The works of art, the shops with their designer goods and clothes, the strong sense of Italian style that can be seen everywhere. This is truly one of the great cities of the world. I wonder what more it will have to offer me before I leave.
Michael arrived back at the Hotel to find he had missed dinner. Richard wanted to know where he had been. ‘I went sightseeing. I found the Trevi fountains,’ he explained. ‘The water was ice-cold. And I saw some of the ancient monuments.’
‘Typical Michael. You go wandering off in a strange city, completely forget about the time and miss your dinner,’ Richard said with a note of annoyance in his voice. That night sleeping was difficult in the heat of the upstairs room. The window was wide open, letting in the noise from the city below and the mosquitoes.
The eighth day. Michael and Richard woke up the next morning with several red marks on their faces and backs. Richard insisted they buy some insect repellent. They had agreed, without a lot of argument, to go on a morning tour. The sightseeing tour set off at ten o’clock. Those that joined it were taken to see the Coliseum. Most of its stonework had been robbed away by successive generations of builders and now formed part of the houses and shops surrounding the huge edifice. They were led to an upper level that looked out over the remains of the central arena. The crowd could see what looked like alleys or corridors surrounded by crumbling walls – the remains of the underground trenches and tunnels that ran everywhere beneath the arena floor on which the gladiators had fought, the covering slabs of which had long since disappeared. The boys were standing next to a pot-bellied man and his wizened little wife. Michael overheard a comment between the two elderly American tourists: ‘Gee Martha, I wonder how they got their chariots round those narrow corridors.’
Michael was about to explain to them that the floor of the circus had been removed long ago when the tour guide started his speech and saved him the trouble. He was fascinated by the huge Roman ruins. He had long been interested in Roman history and seen photos of the Flavian Amphitheatre in books and magazines. He felt very privileged to be looking at it in person. The tour also took them to the Pantheon. The boys stood beneath its massive dome looking at the hole at its centre. Suddenly they heard the organ playing Handel’s Largo. Michael had detested this piece of music ever since he was forced to sing to it in the school choir. Against the backdrop of the music, the sound of polishing could be heard; various workmen were going over the marble floor with their noisy machines. A tour guide was present; Michael thought he was the same man who had escorted them around St. Peter’s Basilica. The guide went around all the members of Michael’s party demanding they pay him a hundred lira for the services of the organist. Michael hid behind a statue so he would not have to pay; he thought this was an impudent rip-off. The stumpy little guide began to explain how the dome had been constructed by the Romans, from concrete. He insisted that they had built a huge mound of earth and then laid the dome over it, pouring concrete into a wooden moulding, before removing the earth and leaving the dome suspended, where it had stood for thousands of years. Michael did not believe him. Chico had tried to claim that the guide was a professor of ancient history but Michael thought he was ‘a twat.’
When they were out of earshot, Michael said, ‘Chico tried to palm me off with the idea that the tour guide was a history professor. I am not convinced, Richard, I really don’t trust him one little bit.’
‘I think you’re right Michael; all that stuff he’s been spouting is one crock of shit.’ Richard could come out with a choice phrase when he wanted to.
After lunch at the hotel, the excursion party was taken to see the Catacombs. Michael was excited as he descended the steps into the cold darkness but Richard kept saying it was eerie and complained about being made to spend time with a load of dead people. The catacombs of St. Sebastian was where both Christians and pagans were entombed, the guide explained to them as he led them through the narrow tunnels, carved out of the native sandstone of the hillside, in the third century. The party passed by niches that had been dug into the walls of the tunnel and in which the dead had once lain. Richard kept saying how morbid it all was.
‘We came all this way to see this beautiful city and have ended up in an underground cemetery,’ Richard complained. The group carried candles to light their way, given to them by the guide. Richard kept groaning like a ghost and Mavis was getting noticeably annoyed at this.
‘Oh for god’s sake Richard! There ain’t no ghosts down here,’ Mavis insisted. Just then a draft of cold air blew against her face and she began bellowing at the top of her voice. Richard started laughing and the guide told him to shut up and show more respect for the dear departed.
Some of the shadowy tunnels still contained the bones of the deceased in their niches and they passed several skulls placed in holes in the walls. Michael felt a great sense of reverence and awe in this holy place, venerated for many centuries by generations of Christians. For him, it was a journey back in time; their descent down the steps from the sun-lit world above into the chilly darkness of the resting place of ancient peoples was a spiritual experience, one that he found very moving and profound. As he walked through the long narrow tunnels, their walls flickering in the lights of the candles, Michael imagined the people whose remains had been brought there, many centuries ago. He imagined a young girl who had died of a disease, her slender corpse wrapped in a white shroud. He saw, in his imagination, the tear-stained faces of her parents as they laid her tenderly in a niche and said their final farewells. He saw the image of the white body fade as they carried their torches away until all was plunged into darkness.
‘Now, Michael,’ Richard said, ‘don’t get lost. I don’t want to have to come back and find you have turned into a pile of bones.’ Some of the tourists laughed but Michael was too preoccupied with reading the little sheet of paper he had been given, to pay much attention to his friend’s antics. The small sheet gave the history of the site and information about the Basilica that stood above it. Michael was enthralled by the catacombs. He could have spent many hours there, dreaming about the lives of the people who had lain there for unimaginable ages. In this place of death, people came to life, in his mind. Had he met ghosts down there, he would happily have talked to them, asking questions about the lives they had led and the world in which they had lived.
The guide led them back to the entrance and to the Basilica on the ground above. Michael’s leaflet explained that the church was one of the richest and most important of early Christian Rome. Michael stood outside with the group, looking at its rounded arches and pointed roof. The guide explained that it was originally called Basilica Apostolorum and was consecrated to the Apostles Peter and Paul. It was built in the first half of the fourth century. Michael wished he had brought his book with him so he could make notes but he had forgotten to pack it before they left. The guide looked at his watch and apologised for not taking them inside but the coach was waiting and there was not enough time. The party took their seats and they were soon travelling back to the hotel.
‘Well, I’m glad that’s over!’, Richard said, as they sat in the coach. ‘I really don’t know why we bothered with that. It was horribly morbid. The last thing I wanted to see in Rome was a burial ground.’
Michael was disappointed at this friend’s dismissive attitude. He said, ‘Well I found it very interesting. It was a pretty moving experience, I thought. We see a lot above ground but what people don’t know is that there is a lot of Rome which is hidden from view, beneath our feet.’
‘Oh my god. You’ll be wanting to go down the sewers next,’ Richard said, wagging his head in disbelief.
‘Well, it’s funny you should say that but the sewers of the city are one of its most astonishing features,’ Michael replied. ‘I read once that the Cloaca Maxima is one of the world’s earliest sewage systems. It was constructed in 600 BC, you know.’
Richard just laughed, slapped his thighs and lent across to the next seat. He said, ‘My friend here wants to spend the rest of the holiday going down the sewers. He thinks that’s a better way of sightseeing than wandering around all these bloody ruins above the ground.’
The person in the next seat peered at Michael but he was busy reading the leaflet he had been given at the catacombs. The coach arrived outside the hotel and the party filed in to get ready for the evening event. At dinner, the boys were given a table with an elderly German couple who spoke no English. As they waded through an incredibly large bowl of tomato soup, Richard said, ‘Really Michael, I wish you would try to cheer up a bit. We are supposed to be here to enjoy ourselves, not spend all the time reading silly leaflets and studying history. You make me despair sometimes.’
Michael was not at all pleased with this remark. He said, ‘Listen. We are in the world’s most historic city. We really should try to learn a bit about it. In fact, I am enjoying it all a lot. I love history and I don’t suppose I will ever get the chance to come here again. So, why shouldn’t I take an interest in the things we are seeing? And one more thing. Please don’t start complaining that we are going to see an opera tonight. You agreed to book it. You paid the money for it.’ Michael paused while he ladled some more soup into his mouth before continuing, ‘And anyway, it’s a very exciting performance. Chico was telling me about it; there will be live animals on stage and thousands of extras.’
Richard could tell his friend was getting a bit peeved and decided to leave his criticisms for later.
‘Well, I am sure it will all be very wonderful,’ Richard said and pushed his soup bowl away.
After dinner, the group set off to the Caracalla baths, an ancient Roman ruin used to stage operas and other events for the tourists. Tonight the organisers presented Verdi’s opera Aida, complete with a huge chorus and live camels and horses, performed by soldiers in full Egyptian costumes, taking part in the victory march, a highlight of the show. Radames arrived on a chariot drawn by four white horses. Michael marvelled at the magnificence of the scenery. He had never before sat through an entire opera, though he had heard some of the music on the radio. After all the trumpeting and tramping rhythms of the Victory March, the stage quietened down as Aida sang a nostalgic aria on the banks of the Nile. The evening was hot and Michael was tired from his long day of activities; during act three, as the soprano sang O patria mia, he fell asleep and missed the rest of the act and most of the next one. He did however wake up in time to witness the immolation scene where Radames and Aida are entombed together, locked in a dying embrace. He found this very impressive and moving. Michael always looked back on that night at the opera, in later years, celebrating it as one of the highlights of his teenage life, but forgetting to mention that he slept through almost half of it.
The next day marked the departure of the party from the eternal city. The journey back to Cattolica was uneventful. The three days had been exhausting for the boys. A lot of activity had been packed into the excursions and they looked forward to seeing their friends again, especially the ones that had not been on the excursion with them. After the trip to the catacombs, Michael’s sleep was disturbed with images of the ghosts of long-dead Romans. In the darkness of their long tunnels, he saw the dead climb from their niches and talk with each other, trying to understand why they were there and what their loved ones were doing in the world above. These were not frightening nightmares; his mind was striving to capture the life of the past and its people. He dreamt about them, to be with them. Their lives fascinated him and he longed to find out more about how Romans lived in those far-off days of centuries ago. But that would have to wait until he got home.